Freedom's Price
by golddoesnotglitter
Summary: Garret Hawke believes that freedom is the most important concept to understand and experience, yet in trying to protect his family, his friends, and the man he loves, he is constricting his own life and emotions in ways he had never considered before. M!Hawke/Anders


_The young Garret Hawke stood in the meadow his father had chosen for lessons. It was small, but large enough for two young boys and a girl to practice their abilities, and it was far enough away from Lothering to stay away from the prying eyes of the villagers. The smell that permeated the air was that of pines, the scent of the needles redolent and calming. The sound of the steady river behind them was a constant background noise to their exertions._

_Carver and Garret faced each other, both holding a sword. Garret himself did not feel completely comfortable with the worn short sword his father had given him, but Malcolm always said it was best to know how to use all weapons at one's disposal, at least a little. Carver was much more skilled with one blade then Garret was. The older Hawke preferred the bow, and secondly, two daggers. He enjoyed the feel of the bow's wood in his hand, the string pulling taunt, his muscles contracting with the effort. He enjoyed that moment before the arrow flew, that moment where he held his breath and aimed. It felt like the world paused and waited for him to let go._

_Carver was taunting him as their blades clanged together. Carver liked to taunt when they were play fighting, but Garret felt sometimes as if Carver's bravado was the barking of a small dog that had crossed the path of a big dog. It was a defense, and Garret accepted it patiently. _

_Garret held his own well. Carver could boast all he wanted, but if the younger boy was honest with himself, his older brother was almost as skilled as him. Garret made up for his lack of strength and talent with a sword with quick thinking._

_Closer to the river, Bethany was in deep discussion with Malcolm, their father. Garret heard their voices rising above the sound of the river, entwining with the clash of metal on metal, which was a mixture of sounds that felt warm and reassuring to Garret. They were talking about magic, about the use of magic, the importance of controlling their magic... Sometimes Garret felt envious of his sister's shared intimacy with their father. And even sometimes, Garret was jealous of her power, but only at moments. More often than that, he thought of how much he cared for his sister, and desired to protect her._

_Malcolm's laughter rang out suddenly, deep and hearty. The sound made Garret smile unconsciously, and both he and Carver turned to see what was so funny. The tall, dark-haired man was patting his smoking shoulder, while Bethany bombarded him with concerned and embarrassed apologies. _

_"I'm not sure what I did to warrant your anger, Beth, but please do not roast me today," he said, his sarcasm lacking anything remotely resembling anger or a reprimand. _

_"Good job, sis," Carver added mockingly._

_She still sputtered out apologies, ignoring her twin, until Malcolm suddenly reached out and picked her up into his arms. She was 14, and rather tall, but the man still managed to lift her with ease. He spun her around, laughing, before setting her back on her feet once more._

_"Just promise you won't do that to your brothers or your mother, and I'll forgive you right now."_

_She nodded eagerly, smiling up at him now. "I swear, I won't!"_

_"That'll be a tough promise with Carver as your brother," Garret said. Carver tossed him a scowl while Bethany giggled._

_"There will be no roasting of brothers," Malcolm said with false sternness. "Nor stabbing or shooting of brothers for that matter," he added, giving Garret and Carver meaningful looks. Bethany giggled again. _

_"Because, despite being slightly annoying at times, we still need each other." Malcolm gave them each his warm smile. "If you stick together and take care of one another, everything will be alright. So can you stop being such asses to one another occasionally?"_

Garret Hawke sat on the sand of the Wounded Coast, staring out at the broken crags jutting from the calm water. The remnant of a ship that had been ruined on the dangerous rocks was just visible beneath the clear surface of the shallow coastline. It was still a couple of hours before nightfall, but the sun had lowered behind some clouds that rested on the horizon, dimming the sea and beach. The clouds were varying colors of pale red, orange, and white.

Garret's mind emerged from his deep memories and thoughts. His gold eyes flickered as they followed the graceful flight of a bird that sailed over the water, searching for a fish to eat beneath the calm surface. For a moment, he wanted to be that bird. It seemed free and unchained to any responsibility or duty, to any jagged memory or sharp regret.

What would Malcolm say if he saw his broken family now? Carver was dead. Bethany was now in Templar hands, and he was unable to aid her. His mother was distant from him, concerned with her new circle of friends, and her ascension to a status similar to that of her childhood. _If you stick together and take care of one another, everything will be alright._ It was a bit late for that, but Garret feared his regret would always gnaw at his heart. He had always wanted to guard his family from harm. It had been his unspoken duty, ever since his father had passed away. He had been confident, even after Carver's death, of his capability to protect Bethany and his mother from harm. He had been a fool, believing himself as mighty as the entire Templar force... greater, even, then all the laws, soldiers, and rulers of the lands. Big enough to overcome death, for himself and his family.

What would Malcolm say if he saw how Garret had failed? The one thing that had ever truly mattered to Malcolm had been his family. Freedom had been a close second, but family had always risen above his father's need to be free. Perhaps Garret had put too much importance on his own freedom at times, on his own wishes, and this was simply the repercussion of his folly: a broken family.

_Freedom's price is never cheap. _His father would say that often, usually in the context of Bethany's evasion of Templar control. Once, Malcolm had pulled Garret aside, and told him that Bethany needed him, would always need him, and that he should protect her right as a human being. Garret had eventually applied his sister's rights to that of all the mages as his opinions and resolve grew. But, as well as mages, Garret believed freedom to be the most important concept to understand and cherish for anyone. A slave, or a prisoner, or a person running from the threat of imprisonment was someone to help.

Yet there was no way to help his sister. If there was a moment in Garret's life when he had ever felt small and useless, it had been when Knight-Captain Cullen had come and taken his sister to the Circle. His furious threat to Cullen had been nullified by Bethany's quiet voice telling him to back down for Mother's sake. He had glared in vain as the templar took his sister away, as his mother fell to her knees and sobbed. An entire life spent watching out for his little sister had amounted to nothing. They had been on the cusp of a brighter future, and it had been ripped away from Bethany. Her _freedom_, the thing that mattered the most in this world, had been taken from her, and her protector could do nothing to reclaim it for her.

Hawke stood restlessly, sand shifting beneath his boots, and he picked his bow off the ground, slinging it over his shoulder. He turned away from the sea and without thinking, began to walk. A breeze wafted off of the water and tangled his shaggy, dark hair around his face. He breathed in deeply, stopped again, and turned back to the sun. The breeze was cool and almost soothing. He shut his eyes, lifting his chin slightly. He did not want to go back to Kirkwall, the city that smelled of shit, sweat, piss, and blood. He did not want to walk those familiar stone streets. He did not want to look into his friends' eyes and realize fully that he could fail them too. He ached for something new, something different, something more liberating and less binding. Whatever that something was, he could not have it, and the breeze was like a teasing dream on the edge of consciousness. As the wind died, the weight grew on his shoulders once more, and he turned back to face Kirkwall.

Garret was not one to be swallowed by grief and regret for long. His steps grew firmer, and his facade of casual pride returned to his features as he walked. He knew he did not want to go home, so he simply let his feet lead him somewhere else. His path ended at the Hanged Man's door. As Isabella said, all paths led to a tavern.

Inside, it was as it always was. The scent of strong ale, under-toned by vomit and urine, met his nostrils. Clanking glasses, laughter, conversations, and the occasional burp could be heard around the room. He stepped inside, a few eyes turning to see who had come in, but he was a frequenter, and no one seemed overly curious at his appearance. Isabella was not at her usual spot, so he continued to Varric's chambers on the second floor.

He was mildly surprised to see Isabella, Varric, Anders, and Merril sitting at the table, speaking together. He heard his name several times as he stood there, unnoticed, and he studied their concerned faces. Garret remembered why they could be worried, but he forced his thoughts of Bethany, and his regrets, back into the recesses of his mind.

"Don't you have anything better to talk about besides me?" he said in a low tone, but his deep voice was heard by all of them, and they all became silent, turning to look at him in the doorway.

"I can think of several things on the top of my head that would be more interesting," Garret said casually, stepping into the room to claim the chair at the end of the table nearest the door. He put his feet onto the table, crossing them at the ankle and his gaze flicked over their faces one by one. "Let's see . . . Sex. . . . Where I could get a dragon as a pet . . . . ? What would happen if someon walked into the Viscount's Keep naked . . . ? Um, Sex. . . . "

"Your sister was taken by Templars!" Merril gasped in shock. "Certainly you don't want to talk about any of that."

"Kitten, hush," Isabella said gently, reaching across the table to take her hand. Merril met Isabella's eyes in confusion, opening her mouth to say something else, but then her lips snapped closed once more as she realized her mistake.

"I know," Garret said calmly. "And there is nothing that can be done. So let's talk about something interesting."

"Hawke..." Anders began, leaning forward onto his elbows. Hazel eyes were soft instead of fierce as he said, "We _can_ get her back. We all loved Bethany and we are with you."

Garret gave him a slight smile before leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling, resigned to the fact that the conversation subject would have to be a serious one for at least a few moments. "No. There is no way we can storm the Gallows and free the mages, so just give it up, Anders. We can help mages in other ways, but for now, Bethany is trapped there."

In those words, the others heard the fierce promise. Even Hawke, who had not realized the depth of his anger, understood that he had not given up on Bethany just yet.

"But, for now," Garret continued, leaning his head back down, eyes focusing on Anders. "For now, I'd rather we talk about something else."

Isabella and Varric were talented at talking about things. Anders joined into their sudden banter of bad jokes with gusto, something that was not his habit. Garret's eyes unconsciously fell on the apostate. He studied the wrinkles around his eyes, the heaviness in his bearing. These were all things he had noticed before with sadness. Garret thought of all that the handsome mage must have suffered under the hands of the Templars and how Justice must constantly fatigue him. There was something that reminded him of Malcolm in the healer, but he could not exactly place what it was. Could it be his determination? His sarcastic, dry remarks? His kindness?

There were some evil mages who seemed to have been shaped to be alike, uncaring of life and devoid of morals. And there were some who seemed to be of another thread, those who were honorable and kind, like his father, his sister, Merril, and Anders. It was as if there were two types of magic, and these two very different powers altered those who possessed them. Anders... was of a very good magic.

Or maybe he was trying to be too technical, when the simple truth was that there were good people and bad people. There would always be a duality in sentient beings.

Merril's laughter filled the room at the other three's jokes. Occasionally Garret would make a dry remark, but mainly he listened and felt warmth seep into his bones. He loved his friends, and would try his best to keep them safe.

But he would never again convince himself that he was some kind of powerful guardian that stood between his friends and danger. He was merely a man.

Anders suddenly stood from the table. He smiled and shrugged apologetically as he said, "I need to get back to the clinic. Get some sleep." His gaze moved to Hawke, and something in Anders's eyes pulled at Garret's chest. Garret stood.

"I'll walk with you."

"Oh, Hawke," Varric called. "I know you're not very interested right now, but I'll get that gold from the Deep Roads to you as soon as possible. Have to sale the stuff first, but as soon as I do, it's yours."

Garret gave him a friendly grin, nodding. "Sure thing. Glad I have a trusty dwarf to do all the shit I don't want to."

Varric laughed. "And a trusty dwarf to shoot better than you."

Before Garret could find a caustic retort, Anders grabbed his elbow with a low chuckle and pulled him out of Varric's room. Garret settled for throwing, "You wish," over his shoulder, before he and Anders began to descend the stairs.

They were silent as they walked to Darktown. The sun had gone down long ago and the dark streets were silent and empty, save for a barking dog somewhere in the distance. Garret felt the usual protectiveness for Anders resurface itself as they traversed the dangerous, night time streets, and he pulled his bow from his shoulder, readying himself for anyone who might attack.

Anders broke the silence. "I can take care of myself. I know you think I'm weak, but you don't have to worry so much."

Garret's eyes widened and he glanced at Anders's in surprise. He had not realized that Anders knew that he was protective of him. "Well, can't have someone hurt you. I wouldn't have anything nice to look at."

Anders laughed, glad that the Hawke could not see his slightly reddened cheeks. "You speak your mind, unlike most bloody people."

Hawke smiled. "I didn't realize one could do anything else."

"You might be better off with a little tact, to be honest," Anders added. "Advice from a friend."

It was Garret's turn to laugh. "As if you have tact. If some Templars walked around the corner right now, you would be shouting as many offensive things as you could think of."

"Don't be fooled. I know when to keep my mouth shut, and when to cuss out Templars."

Garret fingered his bow, turning his head to study the dark outline of the mage's face in the dark. "I'm glad." His voice was serious, and Anders looked at him in surprise. Garret was no longer looking at him when the healer did so.

"And, for the record, I would find a few good words if some Templars walked around the corner right now. I'm feeling a little tactless tonight."

Hawke chuckled deeply, but the laugh was bitter. "I think I would join you. And then maybe throw a dagger or two just to accentuate our . . . points."

Anders didn't reply to Hawke's pun, and Hawke sighed heavily, looking up past the peaks of the buildings and up towards the stars. "Mages deserve freedom, Anders," he said suddenly after a few minutes of silence. He wasn't sure why he had said it. Hawke's opinions on the subject were well-known amongst his friends, especially to Anders.

But he needed to say it. It was anger and bitterness in his voice, bone-deep.

"Mages deserve . . . everything that I have. My sister deserves everything I have, if not more." Hawke was surprised to find he was blinking back tears. The starlight blurred and he looked back down to earth, studying the sharp corners of the cobblestones beneath his feet as he walked. "Bethany is a better person than me. How is it right to lock her up?" Garret shook his head while Anders remained silent.

"You . . . are a better person than me. Why do you have to fight for something that I can take for granted?"

Anders looked over at his companion, eyes intense and warm. "You are a brilliant man," he whispered, so quietly that Hawke almost didn't hear him.

Hawke suddenly reached out with his free hand and gently found Anders's fingers in the shadows. He clasped them in his for a short moment, than let go. Anders was surprised by the sudden gesture, too caught off guard to squeeze the rogue back.

They were quiet the rest of the way to Darktown, and they crossed no enemies' paths.

In fifteen minutes, they were outside of Anders's clinic, bathed in the gold glow from the lanterns hanging above the door way. Garret stopped and turned to face the apostate.

"You don't have to be my entourage. You've been following me around lately. I'm not fragile. And even if I had been fragile before, Justice makes me more than formidable," Anders said, staring up into the slightly taller man's eyes, which were intently studying the mage's face.

"I won't lose you," Hawke replied, his voice dark and serious. Anders was caught off guard by the reply; he had honestly expected something flippant. Hawke seemed to always avoid seriousness, and when he had lapses into solemnity, like he had in the night streets, he quickly bounced back into his annoying, arrogant, sardonic self.

Hawke had never appeared more serious in his life at this moment.

The rogue suddenly dropped his head, his messy black hair falling down like a closing curtain. "I mean I won't . . ." His deep, strong voice broke, and Anders's eyes widened in shock. He lifted a hand and touched Garret's cheek gently. The rogue lifted his face slightly, his head still bent down but his eyes on the apostate. He leaned into Anders's touch. "I mean I won't ever . . . stop _trying _to keep you safe. I can't promise anything. I should never have promised anything to Bethany."

Anders sighed and slid his hand to the back of Hawke's neck, pulling him against his body. He embraced the lean, muscled man for the first time, holding his head gently down against his shoulder. Hawke immediately returned the hug without any shame at his own display of emotions.

"Hawke, it's not your fault. What happens to me . . . What happens to Bethany . . . It is not, nor ever will be, _your_ fault," Anders murmured into his ear firmly. Hawke tightened his arms around Anders ribcage, then lifted his head, staring at the mage through strands of black hair. His eyes glistened, gold whiskey in the lantern light. Anders's returned his stare with darker, brown-hazel eyes.

"I can't lose you, Anders," he whispered.

Anders moved his hands to gently grip the side of Hawke's handsome face. "If you do lose me," the mage replied. "It will not be your fault. You blame yourself for everything wrong that happens to your friends and family. You put weight on your shoulders that you don't need, nor deserve. Hawke, you are not our guardian. And that being said, I will try my damnedest to keep you safe, too, but that is all one can ever do: Try."

Garret's warm gaze flickered over Anders's features. After a moment of silence, Garret moved his head slightly closer, eyes locking on Ander's thin lips. Their mouths paused an inch from each other, and their breath grew heavier, clashing between their faces in waves. Hawke tilted his head slightly to the side, still in Anders's grip. Garret came forward to clear that measly inch between them. His fingers tightened into the back of Anders's robes, and his lips touched the mage's with the slightest pressure before Anders's suddenly pushed him away.

Their eyes met again. They were still close, but Garret felt Anders's draw away slightly, the entire length of their bodies' no longer touching. Hawke could almost physically and emotionally feel Anders's departure from the moment. Before Anders's could explain why he had broken the connection between them, Hawke took a slow step back, never taking his stare off of Anders's face.

"Good night," Hawke murmured huskily, pulling off the sexiest smolder Anders's had ever been the recipient of. And the ironic part was, Anders did not believe the rogue intended for his look to be so alluring and provocative.

Garret turned away, and moved towards the filthy paths of Darktown. "Good . . . Good night, Hawke. Don't worry so much." Hawke lifted his arm in a flippant wave, and Anders's felt suddenly, acutely, that Garret was at least a little hurt by his rebuttal. But Anders did not think it was the right time to make any advances with Hawke. It was taking advantage of Hawke during a hard time in his life. If Hawke was in his right mind, without grief or frustration hindering his reasoning, he might think twice of kissing . . . making love . . . to a body that housed a Fade spirit.

And also, Anders wasn't sure if he was ready to commit, and making love was often the catalyst for committing to a relationship, or breaking a friendship. The apostate wasn't sure what he would do without the strong, independent, clever, and honorable man.

Anders studied Hawke as he climbed the last set of stairs leading away from his clinic. The rogue's lean back . . . and backside . . . clad in dirty, leather armor was the most desirable image to Anders. Hawke's shaggy strands of black hair brushing the top of his armor . . . the silent tread of his thin, black boots . . . the tight, toned muscles of his forearms . . . Anders almost called him back.

Hawke disappeared around the corner and Anders turned towards his lonely, dark clinic.

There was something that whispered of his childhood when he pulled the string back on his bow. Sometimes, if he wasn't caught up in a battle, he could almost smell pine trees and hear his father's voice next to his ear, murmuring to shift his aim a little bit, to relax his shoulders. He had spent so much of his childhood in that glade, honing his skills to protect himself and his family. That glade held some of his most treasured memories. That glade held the ghost of his father, Malcolm, and the ghost of Carver. He could hear the high, child-like laughter of Bethany harmonizing with the gentle voice of the river.

Garret released the bowstring. The arrow embedded itself in the unsuspecting bandit's neck. The other two in the now-dead marauder's group, who were hiding in a dark crevice of Lowtown, waiting for an unsuspecting passersby, turned in shock at their collapsing companion. Blood was gushing from around the puncture the arrow had made.

Hawke's mouth turned up at the corners in a grim smile. He stepped from the shadows across from the two men. He slung the bow over his shoulder, the wood crossed over his back, and he unsheathed the twin daggers on his belt. These two men would be easy opponents.

"Assholes! Over here." The two rogues spun around, eyes wide in surprise and fear. Garret spun his daggers at waist-level as he progressed to them. "You should have picked a day- job."

One appeared close to running away, while the other was angry. He pulled his own daggers out while the scared one fumbled for his bow and an arrow.

"Ya killed 'em, ya bastard!" he cried indignantly and Garret chuckled in reply.

The dark laugh made the other drop his arrow and he told his companion in a shaking voice, "Let's go! This was a bad idea, anyways!"

"I would listen to your companion if I were you, which I'm glad I'm not," Hawke said. He stopped walking, still spinning his daggers expertly.

The volatile rogue paused, too, eyeing Hawke suspiciously. "You'd let us go?"

Hawke stopped spinning his blades, and thoughtfully scratched his temple delicately with the sharp point of his weapon. He looked up at the sky, then back down at the two men. "Hmm, well, I could let you go, to rob and kill and rape more innocents." He lifted his daggers and shifted them up and down as if they were a scale, weighing his options. "Or . . . I could kill you." He studied the rogues' faces, face squinted up in a comically thoughtful expression. "What to do, what to do . . ." He then shrugged, as if he had made up his mind. "Sorry. No hard feelings, right?"

Hawke then, on lithe legs and silent feet, continued his advance. Both were unsure, hesitant, but they readied their weapons.

An arrow whooshed past his hip, poorly aimed because of the bandit archer's nervousness and Garret's grin widened maniacally. The closest rogue saw the strange, dangerous smile and his face blanched white in fear. He came forward to meet Garret anyway, brave in his own right. The archer was scrambling for another arrow, but he dropped the projectile from his shaking hands, cursing as it clattered against the stone.

The rogue in front of him growled like a trapped dog and lashed out with a roughly-hewn and rusted dagger. The tall, slender Garret batted the weapon away with surprisingly force and it nearly flew from the man's hand. Garret's other blade nicked his cheek with such speed that he barely registered he had been wounded. A thin line of blood welled up from his skin.

The man realized Garret was playing a cat and mouse game with him. Angrily he lashed out with his left dagger. Garret parried it, and followed his opponent's attack with another lashing out of his weapon. A symmetrical line on the opposite cheek suddenly bled.

The archer had moved around to Garret's left, deeper into the shadows, and at a position to shoot without hurting his companion. His hands still shook nervously, but he managed to still himself long enough to fire a precise shot. And Garret suddenly gracefully flipped backwards, clipping the rogue in the chin with the toes of his boots as he dodged the arrow. The projectile was shot through empty air and hit the wall on the far side of the street.

Garret landed once on his hands, and continued to flip once more till he was on his feet again. The dagger-wielder had stumbled backwards in pain from the strong hit to his jaw, but he had recovered and was now coming towards Garret hesitantly.

Garret chuckled darkly. "No longer going easy on you. Fair warning." He rushed forward into a sudden sprint and the man began back-peddling in fear.

"Shoot him, shoot him!" he shouted eyes wide.

Because of Garret's momentum, and the archer's fright, he shot just behind of Garret.

The man tried to hold his own against the sudden flurry of daggers Garret had become, but he only managed two blocks before the dagger slashed open his throat. Pulsing blood spurted onto Garret's chest and the man's eyes grew wide in shock, bulging from their sockets, before they became glassy in death. He crumpled to the stones.

"Oh, Maker," the archer said, voice breaking. Hawke had turned toward him, his face no longer smiling. His expression was grim. He pulled his bow taunt, but he was trembling so hard that the arrow fell from his hands. He fumbled for another, and when he felt no feathering, he turned his head to look into the quiver.

_No more arrows._

That was his last thought before Garret threw his right dagger. It spun through the air and drove into the archer's neck with a wet, ripping sound. The archer turned slowly, a gurgle coming from his throat before a splattering of blood erupted from his mouth. Little red bubbles oozed out around the blade where it jutted from his neck. He moved his red-stained lips like a fish gaping for water. His eyes rolled back into his skull and he fell.

Hawke walked forward, solemn, surrounded by death. He knew these men were part of a blood-thirsty gang that preyed upon innocents at night. He had no sympathy for them.

But the rogue's blood was still warm on his skin, on his clothes. His grim face was stained with it.

Garret pulled the dagger from the corpse's throat. He wiped both of his red blades onto his dark leather pants before sheathing them at his side. He reached up, reassured when he felt the cool wood of his bow still on his back, then knelt down to untie the archer's coin purse from his belt.

As he stood, he rolled his shoulders, stretching the muscles along his arms and back. His eyes, unlike their former glint of enjoyment in the battle, were now weary. He loped away into the shadows of the winding, stone streets.

"I'm glad you came, Hawke," Anders said, looking over his shoulder at the rogue standing in the doorway. Anders was kneeling on the floor, wiping up the blood near one of the cots. A wounded patient must have come into the clinic just before Hawke had arrived.

"Can't you just wave your magic stick and clean everything up?" Hawke asked lightly, though the sight of Anders and the memory of their kiss filled him with nervous, and lustful, warmth.

Anders snorted. "I suppose I could. But I prefer saving my energy for more important things."

"Not that I don't enjoy this view, mind you," Garret added. He then questioned if that had been a wise thing to say after Anders's rebuff three nights ago. He kicked himself mentally. Obviously Anders wanted him to back off.

The apostate stood and turned to him, face serious. "I'm sorry I pushed you away the other night." Hawke was surprised at how Anders broached the subject so easily. "I thought it would be taking advantage of you."

Hawke laughed in startled amusement. "Advantage? Was I in some kind of muddled state that I was unaware of? I only had 2 or 3 cups of ale that night, I think."

Anders looked away, sighing. Hawke's expression became more serious because of Anders's solemnity. "I was apparently wrong in that notion. Later . . . later, Hawke. We'll talk about it later, I swear. But right now, I believe I am in trouble."

Anders met Hawke's concerned gaze. "Things just keep getting worse. I had templars practically on my doorstep last night."

Hawke stepped closer, wanting to reach for the mage. Instead, he reached for a sarcastic remark as usual, hiding most of his worry behind it. "Don't tell me these things. I might have to lock you up to keep them off you."

Anders felt a jolt in his stomach at those words. From anyone else, the words might have been demeaning, but they were touching from Garret.

"They aren't so much after me as . . . destroying my kind and all I represent. The knight-commander is out of control. Even her own people are talking about it. The curfew, the midnight raids on mages' families, everyone I know forced into hiding from fear of being made tranquil."

Hawke felt his usual arrogance rise up, and immediately his newly found realizations knocked it back down. "If they want you, they will have to come through me. I won't let another person I care about be taken without a fight."

"You're at as much risk as I am, Hawke. That's what I worry. What if your money and position aren't enough? What if Meredith comes after you?" Anders chest constricted at the thought. Hawke opened his mouth to say something, but Anders cut him off. "Everything I've done to control this . . . I don't care. I would drown us in blood to keep you safe."

Hawke's eyes widened. Then his lips crooked up at one corner in a smirk, and he attempted to steer the conversation into less serious waters. "We haven't talked much lately," he said in a mockingly cheerful voice. "How have you been?"

"Good," Anders replied, impatient with Hawke. "I just love what Meredith has done with the place."

Anders paused, eyebrows contracted in thought and irritation. Too often did he ask for Hawke's help, but he did need him, for more reasons than one. And each time, Hawke twisted him around in a maze of flirtatious words and sarcastic comments until he was nearly lost in what had initially appeared to be a straight-forward conversation.

"What do you need of me, Anders? I'm here for you," Hawke said, as if reading Anders's annoyed thoughts. The gentle, yet blunt, comment soothed Anders. Hawke might often appear to be apathetic to others' feelings, but sometimes he was very sensitive to people's needs.

"Come with me tonight. Help me stop Meridith's and Ulrick's tranquil solution." Anders's voice was fierce, even as he thought of how much he needed Hawke in almost everything he did. What had he done before the rogue had come into his life? -Basically run from templars and jump headlong into asinine ideas like becoming a grey warden. But now he could fight back. Now he could trust someone, at least a little.

"I wouldn't want you to face this alone, Anders," Hawke replied, giving the mage a solemn smile. Anders swallowed heavily as the rogue's dark amber eyes watched him. "Let's go as soon as possible," Hawke continued. "I don't want you to be in danger any longer than necessary."

"This won't stop the danger. In fact, this might increase it."

"But if there is this 'tranquil solution,' and we succeed at stopping it, it will possibly save you and Bethany from a fate I would not wish on anyone, especially not people I love." Hawke grinned confidently, unashamed of his declaration of love. Anders pushed away the sudden desire to kiss the rogue, and walked past his companion.

"We will go at nightfall, to mask our approach."


End file.
